As I knelt by your graveside, thoughts of your
coolness licked against my fiery skin. I traced
the S’s of your name, chased the moss from
the curves of earth’s granite. Your hand upon
my shoulder, slipped past—
a breath of displaced air, disguised
in a sigh.
I wanted to tell you that Gerry finally came home. Four paws
clicking and tail hung low. Thought you might
want to know. Deer ate the tulips again, a young doe
with twins. Tiny spotted things.
I wanted to ask where you put the instructions
for the furnace. It’s mighty cold this spring: the bees
might not hatch. And where’s the edging shovel,
the green handled one?
I wanted to know, if I‘d said sorry, would
you have left in such a fury? Would you have paused
long enough to scratch Gerry behind the ears? Long enough
to fasten the gate? And in that moment
of her early morning meal?